


The Moon Sees Me

by onewealthyhobo



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Daddy Harry, Eventual Step-dad Logan, Logan is a big softy, M/M, Rewrite of No Such Thing as Normal, Road Trip, one big happy dysfunctional family, son Teddy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-26
Updated: 2017-11-26
Packaged: 2019-02-07 09:29:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12838290
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/onewealthyhobo/pseuds/onewealthyhobo
Summary: Just because it heals doesn't mean that it don't hurt. It hurts. Every damn time. Every hit, every stab, every strike of a bullet, I feel it as it rips through me, tears through the meat and the muscle but never the bone. The bones always remain solid.But whatever. It ain't lasting. The pain is easy to forget, the blood washes off, there won't even be a scar. They knock me down. I can get up. I can walk away. No matter how much they hurt me they can't leave a mark on me. That's the way I thought of myself. Untouchable. Unbreakable.That is until I met them.Or; having a family is a beautiful and terrifying thing.





	The Moon Sees Me

**Author's Note:**

> So here it is fellows. I started this thing way back in 2014 and left it, like most things I start, abandoned. But of what little I had you lovely, beautiful readers decided it was something good and kept on leaving me love and kudos and comments even after so long. 
> 
> I am amazed and humbled and touched by the things all of you had said and by your gracious encouragement decided to revisit this old thing, dust it off, and try again. My writing style has vastly changed since then and I hope it will meet or exceed your expectations, and I promise you now that I will see this thing through to the end. 
> 
> Thank you all for your support. It has given me the drive to write again. So here it is, No Such Thing as Normal under a new name and new style. Enjoy.

The sound of a nose breaking is distinctive. Less bone, more cartilage. Not so much a snap but a wet crunchy noise, like under ripe watermelon hitting concrete. The dumb bastard kinda looks like one when he drops on his back, the center of his face all pulp and juice. He gurgles and spits out a tooth like a seed. Didn’t even have to put force to it, just held my fist there and let his momentum from a sloppy swing drive himself into my knuckles.

He leaves a snail trail when they drag him out of the cage, a brand new skid mark to join the rest. Some guy tosses sand over it. Grinds under my boots as I walk to my corner. I think of the floor of the Coliseum, the grand arena of Rome: blood, sweat, bone, dust. Stink of adrenaline and rage and fear. Roar of the crowd, deafening. Drunken patrons screaming for more, more violence, more blood, more death. The emperor, fist out, ready to make his decision. _Are you not entertained?_

Except this ain’t Gladiators and I’m no where near Rome. I’m in some backwater bar up in the Rockies, the arena walls are made of chain link, and if I managed to kill someone that would stop the party dead in its tracks.

The bookie calls for last bets as I go to my cigar and beer still smoldering and still sweating in the corner. The pot is nearly five grand now but the money isn't really the incentive here. They've been wanting my head since I walked in.

This is trucker country, the rough side of the mountains. No ski lodges, no cabin retreat, no historical tourist traps. The only kind that haunt these parts are haulers or hunters or the hill billies with the misfortune of being born here. Everyone else is smart enough to keep on going till they find a town with a large enough population to support a Holiday Inn. Everyone but me, with my sad trailer hitched to my old pickup and no rifle in sight. I stopped because I needed to piss. Only got the side eyes when I decided to stay for a beer or two.

I'm shaped mostly right for a man. Shorter than average, maybe. Too wide in the chest and arms, a little too much hair everywhere. But I pass as a man where it counts when a lot of mutants don't. Problem is I don't move right.

When someone knows they don't belong they got this way about themselves. They hunch in, defensive. Make their bodies smaller, duck their heads, avoid eye contact, try to disappear. Little weasel skulking through wolf territory. Don't want no trouble sir, just passing through, ready to scurry when someone bares their teeth. But I'm the Wolverine among the wolves and I'm not scared. See no point in pretending to be. I've been stabbed, shot in the head, even been drowned. Whatever they can do to me wont last so sitting in a sketchy bar getting stink eyed by a few red necks isn't going to unnerve me.

And of course some of those red necks took exception to that, which explains the pissing matches I've currently found myself in.

Wasn't exactly the smartest thing to agree to this. Everyone's a little too drunk and blood thirsty to notice that no bruises are forming, that the cut above my eye had stopped dripping two fights ago, that my knuckles ain't swollen and split and my wrists ain’t shattered to hell. There's a reason why boxers tape up and wear gloves. Finger bones are more delicate than you think and eventually they break when they hit enough heads. And mine is pretty damn hard. Probably the hardest in this state, if not all of North America.

The guys I beat, I know their hands are all sorts of fucked. The last one broke a finger on my cheek bone when he went for my face. They're gonna wonder about it, why hitting me was the same as hitting a steel beam wrapped in meat. They're gonna suspect. But they've already learned how hard it is to hurt me. They've first hand experience on how _much_ I can hurt them. If any are stupid enough to come after me for a second beating then I'm all too happy to oblige. Not my fault if they can’t swallow a bruised pride and some broken teeth.

Besides, too long on the road gets me antsy, irritable. At least in a cage match it's completely acceptable, encouraged even, to smash someone's face in. This way there's no property damage or police intervention. And I can even earn a little bit of money on the side. Win-win.

I finish my beer just as the bell rings. Roll my shoulders and my neck just for the show of it and because it feels nice. I'm in a pretty good mood, limbs loose and blood thrumming, already forming half plans on what I'm going to do with the money. Trip south for the winter maybe. Florida's nice this time of year.

I turn to the sorry bub that's about to get his ass handed to him, fists up and ready. He's short. An inch or two below me, maybe, which is saying something. I’m 5’4” with my boots on.

He's shirtless, pale smooth skin, nearly hairless, body like a whip chord. Thin shoulders and a narrow chest but there's sinew there. Clings tight to the bones, compacted around the ribs and pulled taught down the inward curve of his stomach to the jutting V of his hips. He lifts his arms, hands loose and curled instead of fisted, and the shifting of muscle is fucking _dramatic_ under the lights. There's so little fat on him. It shows allover but especially in his face. Protruding cheek bones and a jawline like a razor blade. The skin between is stretched too tight, leaves his mouth thin and sharp like the rest of him.

But his eyes. Damn those eyes. Green like broken glass bottles set deep in all those harsh angles. I feel like I'll cut myself if I touch him.

The bell rings; the fight begins.

He doesn't start at me, circles instead. I think of scrawny junk yard dogs kicked one too many times. Hungry. Wary. Dangerous. He doesn't take his eyes off me for a second, waits for me to make the first move. I lunge at him and he’s ready for it.

It takes no time at all to see that he's a scrapper. Fights like he's used to the other guy being bigger and stronger. He keeps it fast and dirty. Dodges more than he blocks. Goes for the tender spots when he has the opening: kidneys, wind pipe, groin, solar plexus, temples. Calculated and vicious.

He gives up using his hands pretty quick after the first solid punch against my chest, right on the sternum. Shakes his fist, numb from the impact. His legs are stronger and longer so he uses them instead to keep me at a distance.

And fuck is he quick. He forces me to chase him, darts around the ring like a fly, always moving so I can't bully him to the wall, can't corner him. He's got speed over strength, flexibility over bulk, and his small size makes it hard to pin him down. But I got stamina and that pesky healing thing. It's only a matter of time for me to wear him down.

So I let myself get a little distracted.

At some point I knock him in the mouth. Blood gathers at the corner. He tongues at it, a quick dart of pink, red against his teeth. He spits. It stains his bottom lip slick and wet like cherry lip gloss, stark against his pale skin.

It really shouldn't be a turn on.

At some point he returns the favor by head butting me straight in the nose. For a split second, I feel his hair against my face. It's black and thick, sweat slicked into coarse, wild curls long enough to get a good handful. Easy to yank. Smells primal, masculine. Hot scent of exertion smothers the cheap shampoo he uses.

That shouldn't be a turn on either.

I get a good whiff before the crown of his head breaks my nose. Stings like a bitch but the pain goes away in seconds after I wrench it back in place. Doesn't seem like he concussed himself but he stumbles a little as he backs out of my reach.

At some point I manage to catch him. I try to grapple him into a head lock but he's having none of it. He does some slick judo trick, places his legs and arms _just so_ and twists his torso, using my own momentum against me to toss my ass straight to the ground. He slithers away before I can figure out what the hell happened, always out of reach.

Should. Not. Be. A turn on.

And the entire time he keeps making these noises. Small, quiet noises. Can only hear them when I'm close enough to catch him. A choked off grunt as I get him some place tender. A whispered ‘ _fuck_ ' more breath than noise as he shakes off the shock in his limbs when his hit connect. A muffled growl of rage as I grab him, cut off and swallowed back like he can’t stand to let me know he’s getting frustrated. Like he doesn’t want to give me the satisfaction.

And okay, that’s a turn on.

My pants get tight and I suddenly have different plans for the prize money. A week in a hotel with some damn room service because the man needs to eat. Just me and him and those green eyes and a different application of that flexibility.

Would he be as slippery with a bed involved? Would he tease, use those dirty tricks to make me chase him, make me hold him down before he finally submits? Would he be just as quiet? Would I have to fuck those breathless little sounds out of him? Toy with him until he finally cries out?

And now I'm thinking with my dick because I'm going for the pin instead of the knock out. I could end it with one good jab, just enough force to break something. Nothing vital, but something pain inducing enough to get him to tap out. Easiest way to end a fight.

He's tiring. I'm getting in his space more often, holding him a little longer each time I grab him. There's plenty opportunity but I find I don't want to hurt him that badly. It's making this fight much longer than it needs to be. I don't really mind.

I'm actually having fun. Been a long time since I've been up against someone who knows how to handle themselves. Too many guys rely on being the bigger bub. Just toss their weight around and hit harder than the other guy till one of them blacks out. Little bastards like Green Eyes don't have that advantage. He gotta be quick and clever and dirty as hell if he wants to get out on top. I respect that in a person.

I get him again in a grapple. Manage to wrench his arm behind his back and force him face first against the cage, crowd up behind him so he can't wriggle away. He thrashes hard. Sharp elbows try to jab me but the angle is wrong. Snaps his head back to break my nose again. He misses. I won’t let that happen twice.

He struggles, lithe body hot from the fight, droplets of sweat running down his skin. He's all slick, sliding, _wet_ against my chest. I wanna put my mouth to his shoulder. Sink my teeth into the meat of him, taste him on my tongue. Would that make him struggle more? (I kind of hope it does)

But that's a question to answer with less of an audience around.

"Just give it up," I whisper in his ear instead. I tighten my grip on his forearm. Feels thin in my hand, easy to break. He answers with a snarl, the first real sound he's made all night. Thrashes even harder.

I want to say something else. Something filthy to rile him up more. Offer him a portion, hell, half of the money to spend the night with me if he’s desperate enough for it. It's obvious he's not going to win. He knows it but he's too stubborn to stop fighting. He wont quit until I put him down.

It’s one hell of a turn on.

"STOP! STOP IT!" A little voice screams at me before I can open my mouth. The sound is tiny, shrill, can barely hear it over the roar of the crowd. It's too young to belong in a place like this. Too scared.

And then I see it, a little hand slipping through the chain link, tiny fingers grasping at the material of Green Eye's pants. The hand is attached to a boy on the other side. Puffy winter coat, little blue boots, an orange knitted cap too big for him. Swallows his head, almost falls over his eyes that are also too big.

The boy has green eyes. Bright and gleaming like broken glass bottles…..At first.

Takes less then a second. Wouldn't have seen it if I wasn't standing this close and the tyke wasn't glaring at me with all the hatred in his tiny body. Colors explode across his iris like ink in water. Red bleeds out from the pupil, consumes the green until it’s all gone. It thins out. Shimmers. Separates. Orange blooms from beneath and flecks of yellow bubble to the surface as the red is pushed to the very edges, where the white meets the iris.

His eyes look like fire.

They gleam in the light under the furrow of his brow. His nostrils flare, tiny chest heaving too fast under his jacket. His little mouth curls in an angry snarl. There's a glint inside there, white baby teeth longer and sharper than they should be.

"STOP HURTING DADDY!" he wails.

I feel the world go sideways. Partly because 'Daddy' took that small moment of distraction to stab his knife of an elbow into my stomach. Loosens my grip enough for him to wrench out his arm, turn around, tackle me to the ground, straddle my chest and punch me in the face. He doesn't stop, doesn’t try to save his hands like before. He keeps on going like he's dead set on caving in my skull with his fists alone. If it weren't made of metal he'd probably succeed.

Because now I know.

That wasn't stubbornness that had kept him fighting. It wasn't the fear of losing for pride's sake. There are men out there that would rather die than give up, egos too big to ever let someone push them down when they could still push back. Only way to get them to stop is either knock them out or kill them. They're a rare kind, worth knowing, worth teasing a little. That's what I assumed about him but I was off by a mile.

'Daddy' just might be that kind of man, but it’s for _survival_ , not pride, because 'Daddy' has a son with a mouth full of fangs and eyes that flare like a wild animal. And 'Daddy' would not risk bringing his mutant kid into a place like this if things were going well. Here, at a fucking cage match full of people stereotyped by their anti-liberal, pro-second amendment views, to endanger himself and his boy for a wad of dirty fight money. And 'Daddy' would probably kill me to keep the secret if he thought he could get away with it.

Too bad he can't even if he tried. Gotta give him an A+ for effort though.

He's punching me hard enough that there’s some brain damage. I feel the grey matter bounce around my skull like a basket ball as he snaps my head from side to side. Vertigo spins the world like a kaleidoscope and my ears ring every time he catches me at the temples where the bone is the thinnest. It goes away in an instant, the hemorrhaging gone before he even raises his other fist for the next strike but it’s still disorienting as all hell. For all the force he's using, his hits are sloppy from rage and exhaustion, the movements obvious and telegraphed. Would be easy to catch his arm, break his wrist, throw him off, but I see flashes of the kid’s stupid neon hat in the corner of my eye every time my head jerks to the left.

My hands don’t move. They stay at my side, fingers curled in so the nails dig deep into the meat of my palms. The pain is more acute and persistent and I clench harder to feel it. Distracts me from the sick lurch in my stomach, the bile and blood rising in the back of my throat.

I count the punches.

There’s five before the bell rings. Another two before they manage to wrench him off of me. I roll to the side and get on my hands and knees, making a show of spitting up blood so the “referee" cant see that I`m not as swollen and bruised as I should be after so many consecutive hits directly to the face. The guy just pats my back like that’s good enough of a vitals check to know that I’m not dying.

 _‘Ding, Ding’_ goes the bell. We have a winner.

The crowd goes wild but I can hear him still resisting whoever is holding him back, no longer silent as he lunges at me. I don’t need to see him to know what he looks like. Murder must be shining from his sharp green eyes, his red mouth twisted in a snarl and stained teeth gnashing as animal sounds of rage rip from his throat, every muscle in his taught body straining as he struggles to get at me. His feet scrabble against the floor, kicking up the blood soaked sand that splatters against my jeans.

I look to the side and see the kid behind the cage. He stands there so terrifyingly small, no longer watching but holding the orange cap down over his face, hiding his eyes (from the world or the sight of his blood thirsty dad, I don’t know) as he shakes in his little blue boots.

The cuts on my hands itch from the sand, already healed.


End file.
